Abscond
by visecre
Summary: v. - to run away or depart secretly. This life had turned into a game - who could run and who couldn't...


**Abscond**

_v. - to run away or depart secretly._

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing! I really wish I did, but I don't.

This is my first story ever, so please read and tell me what I can work on! It means a lot. By the way, this story is rated T because of language and some sexual situations... but I promise, it's a appropriate! lol :)

Also, I wrote this the day after the last episode. It's similar to a lot of stories, but it will diversify in the coming chapters. ;D

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Chapter One: Clinical Detachment

Her fingers traced the tiled walls through the darkness, looking for faults in the joints. This was the third time she combed the room. He knees were painful and her shoulders cramped from all of the stretching up. Honestly, she didn't care. She needed to find a way, any way, to get out of the cell. She just wasn't sure how it was possible.

It was dark, and she had never seen any of the features of her cell. From stumbling around and fingering the walls, she knew there was a cot, a window, and a metal door. The walls were tiled, and she imagined them to be a stark white, with no charcteristics beyond that. There was no light, not even rimming the shaded glass of below the metal door. She struggled to find her hand in front of her face, with no success. She was completely alone. All that was left was her mind, and that was quickly evaporating with her hope of excape.

She could feel herself fraying. In the FBI, they had pamphets you were required to read on insanity. It happened frequently enough in the Bureau, just because of stress and the many horrible things even regular agents encountered on cases. This, however, was far beyond anything she had imagined. The simple darkness was working away at her mind already, and she knew that it hadn't been long that she'd been held captive. This is what her life had led up to: a hopeless cell in another universe, where nobody knew you or cared that you were suffering.

The thought that she was completely alone, possibly for the rest of her life, strangled a sob from deep in her throat. There would be no Broyles, Astrid, Gene, Walter, Rachel, Ella... and no Peter. For all she knew, they were all dead. It was possible that Peter and Walter and Bell could have failed to make it over. She knew they would have immediately killed Bell and Walter, unless of course they were in a cell just like her. They would use Peter to destroy her home. They would hurt him, torture him, and kill him when they were through. The thought made her claw at the wall in internal agony.

Her hands fell from the desperate search of the wall, slapping the floor between her legs. The sound was harsh and stark in her ears. Beside her own voice, it was all she had heard since she had been placed in the cell. She crawled, thinking of how pathetic she had become, to a corner, curling there. It reminded her of the videotape of her as a girl, during the cortexiphan trials. She had been so scared then, but it almost seemed trivial now. Now, she had no family. She had no friends. There was nobody in the universe to love her.

"Peter," she cried, her tears running down her cheeks and dripping onto her bruised knees. Even as she riffled through the dark thoughts of loneliness, his named jumped to her tongue.

Peter, oh God, Peter. At first, he had been a means to an end. He was the criminal son of a mad scientist that she had needed to save John. He meant absolutely nothing to her at all when she found him in the hotel in Iraq. He was the definition of the criminal creeps she was trained to hunt down, and that's it. But he came back anyway, despite the fact he had been hiding from the FBI for a while at that point and despised his father. And more importantly, he stayed.

He said it was because his needed answers, but she really doubted that was what it was about. People just didn't give up a life of successful crime to life with a hated, estranged father and put their life of the line daily. She never knew why he stayed, but she was glad he did.

But at least she knew why she was so thankful for that. Through all the cases, all the long nights and the monsters, he had been there for her. He was always there when she needed him - and really, it was always only him - the most. Even though he was arguably the least stable person in her life, he was the one constant. Without him, there was no Fringe Division. Without him, she would have easily gone insane far before this.

She fell for him in between him jumping between the giant mole-baby to save her and the office epidemic when he had been infected. It wasn't really one point in time, more like a gradual series of events that led to something more. It was sort of like sliding into cool water: at first it was cold and hostile, and you just want to get out, but soon you acclimate and even start to enjoy it. It was unreasonable and too incredibly familiar for her to stand, so she hid it. Not to mention, it interferred with her job, which meant everything to her. She couldn't throw any more emotion into her cases without endangering everybody involved.

And then, when she was about to break down, he glimmered. It was so difficult when she saw him glimmer for the first time. Only hours before, they had been so close, so fricking close, to kissing. She had finally accepted what she felt as legitimate, something beyond a childish crush and creeping up on something similar to love. But there he was, standing before her, having the nerve to glimmer. She took it as a sign that she wasn't meant to be with him, and distanced herself proportionally.

And then, everything seemed to build up to the moment in the hospital when he finally woke up. The cold, dark look in his eye alarmed her immediately. Even when she first cornered him in the hotel lobby in Iraq, his eyes had always been a soft liquid blue. She knew then that he knew. He guilt was too much for her to even deny it anymore.

That had been a week ago.

Since then, he had disappeared, been found by the other Walter (who she knew now for sure was a complete asshole, which made her appreciate her Walter a bit more), and come to this side. She, of course, followed him to save him, kissed him, and then - well, she somehow ended up in a dark cell with nothing but thoughts of escape and Peter.

She cursed into the darkness, her fist slamming into the wall by her side. Pain erupted in her fingers and joints, and she decided it was time to curse some more. Without anything but the pain to think of, she tenderly rested the hand her her lap, gently fingering the stinging parts. She hadn't meant to punch it that hard, but somehow she had. She stared into the dark frustratedly, and it seemed to stare back at her.

One of the strangest parts of being completely cut off from sight is that it completely screwed up the rest of your senses. First of all, everything was intensely concentrated. The sting of her hand, for instance, was more than the dull throb it would have usually been. It felt like it was on fire, slammed in a car door, and bitten by a rabid animal at once. There was no way to avoid the pain, either.

Then, there were the sounds. She could hear every thrum of her heart, and the blood pulsing in her veins. Her breathing was amplified as well. When she screamed, her eardrums felt like they were on the verge of bursting. The slapping sound her hands had made earlier was like a gunshot.

Of course, the taste and feel of the bread and water they gave her periodically was altered, as well. Normally, she would have been able to down the stale bread and musty water if she simply pinched her nose, but not any more. The bread was thick and hard, no longer spongey as it should be. It was tough to bite through, and beyond that, the taste was horrifying. The water she used to drown the taste was nearly as bad. It tasted distinctly of rusty pipes and mold. There was no freshness to it, and to her tongue it felt like it had been stagnant for a while. She wondered if they left it there just for her - if they tried to make it as difficult as possibly to avoid going insane. She wouldn't doubt it at all.

The smells of the room were strong and unavoidable as well. There was the sterile smell of an empty room. Then, there was the smell of wool from her cot in the corner that she could smell constantly. Of course, there was also the smell of dirt, oil and sweat on herself that made her feel like an animal in the zoo. It was a good comparison. She was well aware people would come to monitor her from the window every once in a while.

The senses and the emotions and the memories seemed so primal. It made her think all of the time, about whatever she could grasp in her brain. Goats, paisley prints, orchids, paperwork she had forgotten to file before she left, fire detectors, brass doornobs, pearl necklaces, cats, teaparties, cortextiphan, suicide, peacan pies, Starbucks, green dresses, hair dye, trench coats, college, her highschool crushes, venetian blinds, name tags, Portuguese, owls, Daylight Savings Time, the industrial revolution, Peter, motels, guns, office buildings, ships, Chinatown, apples, labradoodles, nailpolish, id cards, lipstick, Peter, Mongolia, Seatle, skin, clocks, Peter, morrors, love, Peter, and St. Clairs in comparison to wherever the hell she was at that point. Thinking logically had become and effort, and it worried her.

Slowly, she could feel herself losing her mind and losing hope. She felt it deep inside and fought it as much as she could, but her grip was failing. Her mind flipped through files of anything to make up for it. In the end, though, it was always him.

When they kissed, it wasn't like fireworks, and she didn't have the urge to marry him or even sleep with him. It was different from that, and it was a connection on a much deeper level than explosives or sex. If she had anything to compare it to, it would probably be an old couple that had been married for decades. The kiss went far beyond what she had expected. Maybe it was because they knew each other so well, or maybe it was because they were both on emotional steroids at the time. It any case, it was beyond anything she expected, and even in the dark cell with her stinging hand and little to no hope, she smiled.

The kiss, however, wasn't the best part. It was when they broke away that she had the overwhelming flood of happiness and contentment. It sounds bad, like she hadn't enjoyed the kiss, but she had. What really made her happy was the pure joy she saw on his face afterward. His eyes lit up and sparked, making her tingle. His smile was vibrant and huge, like he really meant it and couldn't control it, with made her skin flush. When they broke away, she saw the gooseflesh on his arms. The fact that she could see plainly that the feelings were mutual made her burst with unrepressed joy.

That joy made her think of her mother. When she was eight or so, about a year before her mom died, her mom had caught her watching a tv shows about dream weddings. It had always been a guilty pleasure of hers, just like any girl, to dream up the perfect wedding. Her mom watched the show, smiling, for a few minutes, before turning to me and saying, "My wedding was far better."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she said. "You see how they look at each other? They aren't in love. Yeah, they're in like, I suppose, enough to confuse it. But they don't make each other happy. The dress and the roses make her happy. I was in love with your father. It made all the difference!"

It was such a romantic notion that it stuck with me. The last time I had thought about it, though, was before John died. And here the memory was again.

Two years ago, even a week ago, she could have never imagined marrying Peter Bishop. But here she was, daydreaming of a small wedding outside Boston, with a simple gown, Rachel as the Maid of Honor, Ella as the flower girl, and Peter - dressed in his father's tacky 70's purple tux, of course - her groom. She closed her eyes, and all of the sudden the room seemed lighter as a smile tugged on her lips.

She could make it through this.

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_I am such an asshole, _Peter thought.

Peter stared into 'Olivia's' eyes, his mind racing a million miles a second. They had returned to their universe a little under a week before, and since then it had been strangely calm. He woke up that morning, with an uneasy feeling. It was like a storm was coming, but he didn't know anything until that moment.

Her eyes were lighter, and more tilted than his Olivia.

The woman he had just been kissing senseless looked at him with a sort of smug confusion. No, this was not her. It was the other her, the woman who seemed to be her, only with an air of concieted confidence that his Olivia lacked. He was such a fricking asshole for not noticing before.

"'ey, baby, what's goin' on? Why'd you stop?"

Peter shook his head, propping himself up on his elbows, on each side of her waist. She stared at him, her eyes narrowed like a predator. His breathing was shaky as he looked at her. Her hair was spread wildly over the arm of the couch, and it looked like hers should have. Her lips were parted like hers did when she was thinking and sorting a case out. Her cheeks were flushed like hers were when they had first kissed on the other side. But it wasn't her.

"Nothing, you just... look beautiful," he answered quietly. His Olivia was even more beautiful, but he wasn't about to say that to her. That was a quick way of getting killed as far as he was concerned.

But of course, now the differenced were crystal clear. First off, the eyes were completely wrong, which at first her had put down to the dark red-brown hair and the bangs. Boy, had he been wrong. With the bands slightly damp from the rain outside and sweat, then pushed back on her forhead, her eyes were clearly cut differently than they should have been. Then, there was the strange new accent he had been dismissing for six days. She sounded a bit more New Yorker, a little cocky, and she left off the g's on the ends of words. How could he have ignored that? His Olivia was precise and careful with her words; this one said what was on her mind without hesitation.

"You know, you'd look better without the shirt on, Pete," she said, as if to puncuate his point.

Holy shit, there was the nickname, as well. He had nearly forgot. This Olivia had taken to calling him 'Pete' which of course he had never let anyone get away with before. He had always thought Olivia hadn't been one for nicknames. Apparently he was right.

"Olivia, it's getting really late -"

"Isn't that the point?"

Oh, yeah, he was definitely an asshole. He knew agreeing to sleep with her had been a bad idea in the first place, but now he really just wanted a shower and a loofa. Hell, he should have never agreed to it even if it was the real Olivia. It was an absolutely horrible idea.

"I'm just going to get some water," he choked out, sautering off to his Olivia's kitchen. He knew she kept a spare gun in the cookie jar above the fridge. He silently reached up, grabbing it and pulling the gun out without a sound. His fingers stroked the trigger as he stepped into the other room.

When he turned to corner to the room, he immediately registered two things: one, Olivia was right in front of him. Two, she had a gun raises, aimed straight at his forehead.

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So, what did you think? It's my first story, so I'd really like to know what you guys have to say. In fact, I really don't know if it sucks or not. I won't post another chapter unless you guys approve... so yeah, please review!


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